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hazelfoureyes · 12 hours

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A Doe in Fall (part 5)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 6 Posting Thursday April 25

Part 5 Too Much

Actions famously speak louder than words, so what did you say, exactly, to Alastor with your actions that night? You were briefly rattled by what happened in the park but not for the obvious reasons. Despite everything, despite your fears, you found the situation deepening between you two when he suddenly invites to stay the night at his home. Perhaps he had fears of his own?

「Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem Burlesquer reader, No smut! That’s next part because this part was already super fucking long 😭 , but we do flirt our asses off and get taken by the hand, crying, panic attacks, discussions of murder, dead bodies, you really have to stop smoking, deer, adorably nervous Alastor, this man owns more than one mug you fucking know it」

19 days later… 😩 please don’t kill me. 5000 words here, Another like 6000 words are posting this Thursday, also tumblr wouldn’t let me post this for like an hour , just gave me error messages, I had to copy and paste 4 times so there may be some errors in here so let me know if you find spelling or format issues🙏

When he came to, momentarily either unconscious or just incapacitated as his brain started up again, he was frantic for his glasses. He could hear the sounds of a brutal death, the crunch of anger, the squish of rage.

His eyes focused now, slightly askew and smudged glasses helping him see you clearly.

Leaning over the man, hands red and face twisted in a marriage of fear and wrath, you were bringing a large rock down on the man’s unrecognizable face over and over and over and—

You flinched when Alastor’s hands delicately slipped down your arms and peeled your fingers from the rock.

Full body shaking, “He was going to kill you!” You said it too loud, too fast. “He was going to—,” Your breath got caught in your throat, “He wanted to— He was trying to kill you, Alastor.”

Wet with mud and blood and the rain still left on the grass, you were pulled into Alastor’s lap. He tucked your head into the crook of his neck with a small wince and hugged you. “He was. He almost did.” Low and slow, his chest rumbled when he said it. “You did such a good job.”

You looked down at your hands, but he pulled your face back up to look at his, “Always surprising me in the best ways.”

You’d forgotten already, how when adrenaline wanes you’re left with terrible tremors and a suddenly clear head. Alastor almost died. You hadn’t thought at all when it happened. Everything had taken place so fast, faster than your brain could process.

You had seen Alastor stop struggling against the man, his body went still and your eyes were blinded with tears, there was a horrible sound that may have come from you, and then there was nothing. A flash of running Colors. Distant muddled sounds.

Maybe you saw someone grab a rock.

You might have hit the man on the back of the head.

You think he fell down and something didn’t stop moving against him.

Perhaps you thought if you hit him enough you could make it have not happened at all. If you killed him fast enough, Alastor would have been fine and standing.

But you weren’t sure. You blinked and Alastor was touching you and underneath you was a pulp of a man’s face.

Alastor’s heart was racking against his ribs. Arms tightening around you unconsciously as his eyes landed on the dead man.

He’d gotten too comfortable. He pushed too hard. He wanted too much. He was too much.

He felt himself spilling over and staining your hands metaphorically and now literally.

You didn’t feel anything. Not during. Now you felt too much.

Your mind was filled with an echoing chorus of, ‘He almost killed him. He almost died. He almost killed him. He almost died. He almost died. He almost died.”

There was a strange fear that Alastor had died, and any second you’d blink again and be alone in the trees with two dead men. You twisted in his lap, hands rocketing to Alastor’s face and gripping the sides of his head. You were staring into his eyes, panting.

“You can’t die. I’ll—,” tears poured down your face in streams not drops. Your throat closed around the words. Short and fast, your breath ran wild. Hands tingling, your lips felt like they were pricked with a hundred tiny needles.

Alastor pushed down his own mess of emotions, “One deep breath in.” His hands settled on yours, still on his face. He could feel the familiar stickiness of drying blood in his hair. “Keep breathing in.” You coughed, shaking your head no. “You can, I promise it. Would I lie to you?”

You laughed, managing to catch your breath for a moment, “Y-yes.”

“Well, now you’re adding insult to injury.” He made a show of rubbing his neck. You smacked his chest lightly, breathing in twice in a row.

He held both of your hands in both of his, “Name a time I’ve ever lied.” He distracted you but wounded himself. He could name a time.

You tried to think. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re just a really good liar.” Your voice was hoarse.

Alastor nodded, “That’s true, there’s actually nothing I can’t do well.”

Another laugh, a cry, “Stop it.”

His warm, clean hands wiped your tears. “You’re being aggressive again, sweetheart. You know I prefer soft spoken women.”

The laughter helped break the cycle of hyperventilating. As your breathing finally got to a manageable speed you felt exhaustion deep in your bones.

All at once the sensations became prominent. Your knees were red and muddy, your hands bloody, your left side and back wet. You were sticky and sore and cold. “Alastor,” his legs were framing you, yours now folded under yourself and digging into rocks, “I wanna go home.” You adjusted his glasses, “Together.”

If he had a reason to say no, he ignored it.

“I thought I was the messy one.” He washed your hands with the water cans and settled you into the passenger seat of his car. Alastor took care of filling the trunk and cleaning the ground before sliding into the driver's seat.

He turned to you, his face dirty and clothes worse. You looked down at yourself; knees a color of wine, and blue dress now dyed brown.

“I know you have to get rid of him. So, I won’t ask you to sleep over. Just,” you felt sleepy, mind asking you to let it catch up, “let me take care of you for a little bit. Okay?”

His hand slipped onto your leg, he wanted to make a joke about sex or murder hoping to make you laugh again. But it was obvious he needed to be quiet, so he just nodded.

Alastor left the car on a side street behind your building. The man whose name you never asked concealed under canvas and red oil tins.

Luckily everything was clean in your apartment. It was small, just one room and a bathroom. The other apartments you’d seen had communal toilets and showers so you were quite proud of your space. You’d made it yours, gifted trinkets here and there, walls decorated with hanging dried flowers you'd had thrown at your feet. A shrine to your abilities.

You peeled off his clothes, tossing them in the kitchen sink and wiping off as much dirt as you could with a damp rag.

Clothing hanging over the radiator, you both got into the shower. Cold and wet now hot and soaking, you took his hands and sat you both down in the tub while the water ran down. Taking your time, you gently scratched the blood and mud from his hair and let it all wash away.

When fully cleaned and dried off he slipped on the only bit of clothing he had left, a loose pair of boxer shorts. You had a slip, silky and soft, to comfort you. Your mother wore silk, and it always made you feel safe. The way the fabric slid around its self and others, never catching or bunching up, was something you always hoped to emulate; smooth and cool, but always in need of a little caution and care.

A small bed meant for one, but you offered it. When Alastor motioned for you to slide in too, you didn’t hesitate.

Nose to nose, the room was quickly heating up with the radiator's help.

You hadn’t been in a bed with Alastor in nearly two months, not since that first time. His words stuck to you like embroidered messages lovingly stitched into a handkerchief you didn’t want to lose. So you kept your hands between your thighs, still and away, to make sure he had space to exist in your bed.

“You saved my life.” Alastor whispered, one of you finally bringing up the obvious.

A hummed acknowledgment, “That makes us even.” He saved you before, you did the same in turn. A little piece of you worried the contract was done and he’d disappear.

“No, my dear. I owe you so much more.” A kiss to your cheek.

A terrifying thought took hold of you. “Roll over.” He looked confused but did. You were always asking him to turn away, always trying to hide your face when you said things that scared you. You hooked your arms under his and held tightly.

“If I wasn’t there, there’s no one to have told me. How long would I have waited,” another torrent of tears into his back you couldn’t keep in if you tried, “at the phone booth for you to call in the morning.”

You were crying like a child, uncontrolled and with your entire body. Pathetic.

He had never had someone to worry about those details. Everyone truly close to him was dead. Until now, of course.

Of course.

What a natural addition you provided to him. He thought it like that it was a long standing fact.

He hugged your arms tighter to his chest.

A shiver of fear in the warm bed as you continued, “I want to be there. With you. Always.” You gathered your courage. Shields completely down, if just for a moment, “I know there was nothing right about tonight but,” you wiped your tears off his back with your palm, reabsorbing that pain before he could soak it in, “Please. Don’t shut me out now. I’ll go to hell tomorrow for you but please don’t damn me to picking up a newspaper and seeing your name in the headlines; Learning you died in block letters for a nickel. I wouldn’t survive it.”

You didn’t want to meet his eyes, worried rejection was waiting for you there, so you’d asked him to turn so you could hide. He picked up your hands and kissed your knuckles one by one. “Please don’t say things like that outloud. Things like ‘go to hell’ and ‘tomorrow’ so close together. The spirits can hear you.” A kiss to your palm, “And I wouldn’t dare shut you out.” He couldn’t. The very idea of going back to how he was before, alone and mumbling to the dead, made his heart race with his own panic. If you disappeared tomorrow he was scared to think what would happen to him. “Plus, I know you’d just find me anyway. You always do.”

Had you not been there, he would have still tried to kill the man. Waiting in an alley or for a walk home through an empty space. You weren’t at fault. He’d been hurt before, but this was by far the worst situation he had been in. But he would have been in it regardless of your participation. Alastor pressed his lips into your hand, smelling the soap you’d washed him with.

You hadn’t hesitated. He had thought you would run, that he’d slip away into death and you’d book it to safety. Something he never planned to ask you to do, to kill someone, you’d done it for him when it was the most selfless option. Did he mean so much to you? He wanted to ask, but if you said anything other than an immediate yes he feared he would turn to a pillar of salt and crumble.

If you both could find the courage to just look at each other you’d have all your answers. But you couldn’t. The fear still too strong. So you changed the topic for a chance at an escape.

A small confession, to turn the conversation away from death. “After our dates, your cologne always lingers on my clothes. Sometimes I just fall asleep in them. When I wake up, my pillow smells like you.” Your body formed against his back, pressing as tightly as you could. How was that less embarrassing than everything else you’d said when it was arguably more pathetic?

He was quiet. You worried you’d pushed too far. Alastor worried he’d already hurt you too much.

“If you asked me,” he spoke slowly, hands resting on yours above his heart, a deep breath, “I’d stop.” He would.

But, “I’d never ask that of you.” You said it so quickly, like blinking or yawning it happened without you needing to think about it. Alastor did something he felt he needed to do, you saw that look in his eyes before and understood this was Alastor at his truest. And the people he killed weren’t good people. He provided a service to New Orleans that no one appreciated.

He smiled against your palm, making sure you felt it, “Why are you so good to me?”

Without hesitation, Because I love you.

After a beat of silence, “Because you know where I live, obviously.”

A huff, “And where you work.”

“And the park where I like to get fingered.”

Finally, his unburdened laugh, “I didn’t expect you to say that.” That sound of his joy bounced off the thin walls around you both. He rarely expected anything you said or did. It was part of your charm. Normally he could predict what people would say like reading a bad story, but you were something else. Effortlessly entertaining, was that a compliment? He was sure you’d say no and make that face you always did, something between a pout and a glare, between sad and angry.

He had been asking genuinely. Why were you so good to him? Why so patient? Why care at all?

“Can you sleep? Or do you need to go?”

Alastor thought about it, if he left early enough he could still get home in time to empty the trunk. He hummed an affirmative, when he didn’t move you understood it was the former. He didn’t want to go. He needed more time. He needed to feel you nearby. An odd sense that if he pulled away now the thread holding you two together would pull him apart at the seams with the distance.

You would think nightmares would plague you after killing someone in cold blood, but no. You practically killed Tommy, when you considered it thoroughly. And while this night was not a joy, you had defended yourself and Alastor. You didn’t feel bad. You didn’t regret it. You were just scared you did a bad job. That you’d get caught.

The kind of dreams you had were different kinds of scary. Of Alastor always leaving a room when you entered, of falling off the stage and landing too far down, of waking up to feel Alastor cold beside you.

When you did wake, your arms were still tight around him and he was warm. Your forehead rested between his shoulder blades. You didn’t feel different this time, you didn’t feel changed like after Tommy.

Alastor always had nightmares so he wasn’t surprised to have them in your bed. He dreamt he awoke on the ground, the man was gone but you were there broken into several pieces.

Had it been a dream though?

After he dressed, you brushing his hair over a shared cup of coffee (you only had the single mug), you walked him to his car. The sun was nearly up and luckily no one else was. You had just wrapped a coat around your slip, not exactly acceptable clothing for being in public.

A shared kiss, small and chaste, Alastor’s mind elsewhere. He opened the door but stopped and turned back to you. It was always in these moments before you two parted that he felt the most frantic.

“I know we love talking in circles and making jokes, but I have to ask you, bluntly. You killed a man. Are you alright?” When you only blinked, he quickly added, “It’s okay if you’re not.” His expression was pure worry, furrowed brows and flat mouth. “Nothing will change if you say you’re not.”

When you started to smile, Alastor thought he had lost his mind. The sun was rising behind you, making the shadows on your face slowly shift. He took a second to take in the scene. Ankles naked with sockless shoes. To your right was a trunk full of a dead man. And you just smiling like he’d made a joke. Which he explicitly said he wasn’t going to do.

“I don’t feel like I killed anyone.” You said it with a levity that made him glance around, wondering if you’d hit your head a little too hard earlier, “I feel like I stopped someone from killing you. Which feels,” you fought to suppress your smile from growing any further, “kinda good. Like I’m strong. I’m just scared I made a mistake and police will find out. I’m terrified we’ll be seperated. But I don’t feel bad.”

A normal man would be deeply concerned. You didn’t feel bad? For killing a man with a rock? Arguably one of the most brutal ways to murder a person. A normal man would worry he would be next.

Luckily for you both, Alastor was not a normal man. He stared at your face, trying to discern any hints of deceit there before he fell into the comfort of trust.

Your pinky came out, “I’m fine, and if I’m ever not, I will tell you. Promise.” His eyes left your face to stare at the tiny digit, “If I break the promise, you get to break the pinky.”

“Pinkies are useless, we should use a finger that matters.” He offered his index. You let yourself laugh, hooking your pointer finger with his.

Smile to smile, he exhaled his stress and slipped into his normal demeanor, “No worries, darling! No one will ever know what happened to him.” He leaned beside you and patted the trunk. “Leave it to me.”

Alastor drove away with the man, ready to disappear the body and try to sleep before work if possible. A nagging still sat in his stomach, a little pull that maybe you’d change your mind.

He asked you the next morning, on your routine call, if he could stop by the theater when he finished with work that night. No reason in particular. He’d pull into the side street, and you could run out to see him.

When he arrived, you were in your stage outfit waiting to greet the crowd. Alastor smiled, “The prettiest bird I’ve ever seen!”

“A bird? Alastor just ‘pretty’ woulda been a fine compliment.”

He offered an apology by way of kiss, soft hands coming to your cheek as he leaned against the door of his car. “I just wanted to see you. Steal a kiss before you stole some hearts. May I return tomorrow?”

Ah, that feeling again. Stupid school girl with her first crush, her first taste of love. “I wouldn’t complain.”

That flow of conversation eased Alastor, things felt normal already. For you, they were. A small worry remained he may begin to act differently but the only difference was he seemed to be embracing you deeper.

After your delivered kiss, you took the stage like a woman reborn. The warmth of the light felt like the sun. Pointed toes as you moved along the stage, hips loose and smile coy.

As you looked around the backlit crowd you didn’t search for a good mark. The times you did play a man’s attention for Alastor were different, it felt like art when you lured men into Alastor’s claws.

A shake of your feathered fans, a very controlled lowering of your head, you let a hip rock out into view. A little flash of inner thigh. Then, your favorite part. One hand gripped your fans as you them with the aide of practiced fingers. Free hand undoing your still remarkably heavy and glittering bra and handing it behind the curtain.

Surprise reveal, a naked magic trick done behind distracting whirling feathers. Arms open, fans high, you waited for the applause to die down. Deep breaths were not possible, adrenaline and the weight of your costume keeping you from hiding the heaving of your chest.

The whistles were your favorite. You couldn’t imagine Alastor whistling but you were sure it would be flawless in its ability to capture your attention.

“Anyone wanna smoke? I don’t want to go into the alley alone.” You asked the room, several girls glancing your way and shaking their heads no as you hurried back in from your set.

“Just take the fire escape to the roof. That’s where we’ve been smoking since Mr. Brady said it was dangerous at night.” Florence was normally a perfect smoking partner, never talking too much. The name Brady made your stomach flip though, you had forgotten about him for a second. You’d managed to avoid him until Tommy’s bloody trail went cold, but you knew he still stalked around the jazz and music district.

A dancer laughed, “Nighttime has always been dangerous for women.”

Someone you didn’t see added, “Fuck, daytimes not safe either.”

You climbed the creaky and seemingly forgotten-about fire escape to the roof. The breeze hit your face before your feet even left the metal railing.

It was… a roof. Grey painted floors and brick sides. Nothing special, but you could see the bowl full of discarded cigarettes near the front of the building. You looked over the short wall that edged the front, you were able to see the pigeon shit covered marquee. What an unattractive view, the lights flashing out from beneath actual shit.

There was a metaphor there, you were sure.

Looking around, there were a few wicker chairs hidden in the shadow of the street’s lights, thankfully upside down to keep them clean from the birds.

If more people used roofs instead of alleys Alastor would be out of luck. Tommy was difficult enough with a staircase, the fire escape would have been the nail in that coffin.

It had been a lovely night, absolutely jarring compared to the night before. You leaned back in the chair, you knew you weren’t the best at saying what you meant. Especially when the words you offered could be used to hurt you. Words of affection and love, when true, were daggers given handle-first to someone else.

So you hoped Alastor could guess how much he meant to you. You shouldn’t need to say it, right? Actions speak louder than words. You bludgeoned a man to death for what you had thought was a lost cause. It had seemed Alastor was already dead when you first brought down the rock.

Diamond are rocks, you considered. The most expensive costume the theater had was peacock feathered with shining crystals. You wanted to say you felt like a peacock, spirit large and wide and colorful. But those were males. Of course they were. The animal kingdom had males compete for mates with pretty colors and lovely songs. Now ladies pranced around in painted faces and short dresses. You didn’t feel pale or small like the ‘fairer sex’ peacock.

You felt like the swan. Vicious and beautiful, not out shone by anyone.

Well there was someone you’d allow to shine brighter. Someone you’d happily let take the lead. You’d thought letting a man walk in front of you was a sign of subservience. It hadn’t ever occurred to you that there could be respect in trusting someone else to go ahead. That the act of going first could be for protection and not power.

“Hey!”

You hurried to the fire escape, “yeah?”

“There’s a man asking for you. Tall guy named Frank?”

Frank?

Oh, Frank.

You’d forgotten about him. He’d left months ago. He was a whale, rich and generous. You took a moment to consider sitting down with him, smiling and laughing at his jokes, letting his hand settle on your thigh. It had been weeks since you entertained scamming anyone, and now you couldn’t even stomach the idea of faking interest in another man. Frank wasn’t one to scam, he just liked having a pretty lady on his arm to make him feel young and wanted, and in exchange you got into private parties and were gifted jewelry and clothing.

“Tell him I’m busy and send him off.” You hollered down. You could buy your own clothes.

“Did he leave?” Alastor asked you the next morning, you leaning against the glass phone booth in the early morning light.

Your finger wrapped around the phone cord, “No of course not! They never do. I snuck out the back.”

There was a hum, “Well my dear, you’ve offered me a wonderful transition into my next question.” Alastor was sitting at his kitchen table, nervously turning his coffee cup around in circles, “Would you like to come over tomorrow night? I can pick you up after your show.”

Like a glacier drifting away from shore, you very slowly crouched down in the booth. “To your home?”

“No, to Alabama.” He waited a beat, “Yes of course my home. I can show you what happens after I drive away.” A cheeky smile evident through his voice.

You pressed the phone receiver into your chest, teeth chewing on your bottom lip. What happens when he drives away? So…where the bodies go. But most importantly, the biggest part of this—where he lives. So much can be gleaned about someone from their home. A bookshelf alone could make or break an attraction. You brought the receiver back to your mouth. “Lovely! Sure thing— Alastor. Yes.” you almost added on an awkward nickname like daddy-o or mister man, like an idiot, because your brain was misfiring like you’d seen him in the sunlight again.

Ah, you could see his bed.

Where he slept.

Did he ever dream of you?

What if it was terribly dirty? Could you still love him if he was a slob?

“I’m quite far from downtown, pack an overnight bag, okay?” He stopped fidgeting with the mug. When the call ended he sat at the table for some time, staring around the kitchen. The home was large by city standards, but it was old. His mother’s charm was evident through every part. A finger scratched at the wooden table, heavy and solid. Why was his heart racing?

He walked to the screened back door, looking from the weathered patio steps to the greenhouse.

No one had ever been to his home. Ever. A teensy part of him was panicking. Was this a mistake? Was he going to fuck up the budding relationship? Throw off the peace of his safest place?

Budding. Okay that was ridiculous even for him. The kind of intimacy gained through murder did not allow any union to be called budding. He’d shared pieces of himself no other living soul knew of. Your image of him was possibly even more complete than his own mother had held, even though he tried to always be the most sincere with her. Even people he did care for and consider close friends had never knew where he lived. Never heard what kept him up at night. Never learned his distaste for a random lay.

Opening the screen door with a signature creak, the sound many southerners could call comforting, he walked to the greenhouse.

The newest part of the property, the glass walled structure was built shortly after his mother’s death. Double doors: locked. Just beyond the glass was a forest of plants and potted trees. They had no need for a greenhouse, but Alastor had a need for them.

He set about preparing his home for another occupant, a task that brought him such a shock of joy and anxiety he began to wonder who he was. New sheets on the bed, extra pillows set against his wooden headboard. Large glass jar in the backyard full of water and tea bags.

It was also unexpected he was thinking so much of his mother. In a perfect world she’d be there to greet you. Though if she was alive, he wouldn’t have been in that alley that night. He made a mental note to not mention his mother, at least not as much as he was remembering her as he walked around the two story home tidying.

Would he have met you if he wasn’t a killer?

A flicker of fear was quickly extinguished by romance. Definitely. You both ran in the same scenes. He’d seen you before that night, he just never approached you. He hadn’t anticipated how much more you were than the facade you put on. Nothing about your sweet face said, ‘I have a high tolerance for murder.’

Alastor spent the day at work physically present but mentally pacing his living room. He nodded along to discussions of who was to be live on set next, smile never faltering as he worried if he had breakfast foods. He rarely ate breakfast, did you? How had he not thought to ask. Sloppy.

The only outward sign he was feeling any stress was the tapping of his finger on his desk, which he hadn’t even noticed until the stage manager commented.

“Alastoooor,” her voice was high, like it seemed many women’s voices were recently. Was it a trend? “Impatient? Hot date with a young lady this evening?”

While she meant well, she always pried, always asked questions he didn’t appreciate.

Alastor shook his head, smile strained. A perceptive person would have picked up on it, but Brenda was not perceptive.

“Oh.” A noticeable disappointment, “That’s boring.”

Actually on second thought maybe she didn’t mean well.

“I’ve had too much coffee, is all, Brenda.” He pulled his hand into his lap. “Was there anything you needed?”

“No,” she pouted, much less endearing than you.

If he murdered purely for fun Debra would be dead before sunset. Unfortunately her only crime was being remarkably annoying.

Alastor waited behind the theater, where it was less likely any staff would see him. It was still important to avoid connecting the two of you together, at least at your workplace yet.

He was quick to grab your bag for you.

“Not the trunk, please.” You said, it took him a second to catch the joke. He set it on the back seat after opening your door for you. You’d only been in his car a few times but he never failed to be a perfect gentleman.

Your palms were sweating, when his hand rested on your leg while he drove you resisted the urge to hold it. Instead you slipped yours under his. Alastor asked you about your day, about work, about if Frank came back. Typically as soon as you left the theater you were in a cone of silence until your phone call with him the next day. It was kind of nice, having someone to speak to. Before meeting him there were times you worried you’d forget how to talk naturally, how to sound like yourself.

The glowing eyes of deer popped up from the side of the road, startling you. Eerie. You held your breath, would they run, stay still, or sprint into the road.

“Is it true their antlers can break car windshields?” You asked not breaking eye contact with a doe as you drove past.

Alastor nodded, “If a buck hits your car the wrong way, not even the car will make it out of the accident.”

“Are there a lot of bucks around?”

“Will be soon, as fall— wait why am I telling you this,” he laughed, “Miss Autumn Hind already knows what makes the bucks run wild.”

You shouldn’t be smiling, it was a dumb rut joke, but it felt like a compliment.

The car lights passed over the home as he turned into the dirt driveway. Powder blue. It wasn’t a color you associated with Alastor. He was caramel, honey, midnight blue, red. His sometimes sinister smile didn’t look quite right against powder blue. But, for a home, it was lovely.

“Is someone home?” You saw a light on in an upstairs room.

Alastor reached behind you for your bag, “No, I leave it on when I’m gone. Gives the impression that the house isn’t empty.”

A minor bit of acting, Alastor opening the door and offering to bring your bag upstairs before a tour like a good host. His anxious energy was barely contained by that grin of his. For your part you played the appropriately impressed guest.

But deep down you were very impressed. An actual house. Your mother struggled to keep apartments rented. Alastor had a home. With stairs. That went to more home, not a neighbor. What a lovely thing. What did he do with all this space?

He could probably hide quite a few bodies in there.

Alastor opened his bedroom door and motioned for you to enter.

You took in every detail as shrewdly as you could. Two circular nightstands, a wide dresser with a few framed photos and a radio. One large window facing the yard, you could see the car outside from where you were standing. “Wow a man’s bedroom. I tend to avoid these.”

“What a coincidence, so do I. Bedrooms in general, really.” He placed your bag on the dresser, offering to unpack it for you. Your smile screwed up, shaking your head no. You couldn’t imagine Alastor folding your panties and setting them into a drawer.

Well.

“Yes please.” You took a seat on the end of his bed, watching him tenderly empty the bag before beginning to put things away like you’d come home from a trip. “A bed big enough for two people. You didn’t tell me you were a fancy man. Ooh la la.”

Alastor laughed, “Your bed was quite comfortable.” He set your dress onto a hook attached to the closet door, hands running down the fabric to straighten out the wrinkles, “But I have a feeling that had more to do with you than anything else.”

The floor was clean, the rug beneath the bed a simple but pristine white. What an odd color for a rug.

You truly did avoid men’s homes. The power dynamic shifts too much.

“Are all men so clean?”

“Oh god no. Have you really never been to a man’s home?” Without a moment of hesitancy his long fingers flattened out your underthings and neatly folded them. You could call it erotic, knowing what else his fingers could do.

A hum, you swayed side to side, “Too much risk. I don’t know where the knife drawer is, which locks stick, what windows open all the way.”

He set the empty bag into a reading chair in the corner, “That sounds stressful.”

You shrugged, “My mother taught me to always have an escape. From situations, from rooms, from people. Not terrible advice.”

That was true, he thought. If the few women he killed had considered that, he would be less prolific. Women tended to be easier in some regards.

Alastor finally let himself look at you sitting on his bed. Were you wearing the black garters today? He liked those. He appreciated the red dress you’d worn.

Taking off his jacket and vest, he hung them up while his eyes kept returning to you. Your legs were crossed, thighs soft and pressed together. He remembered feeling them against his ears. A little cough to clear his throat and mind.

“Are you hungry?”

You werent, but you weren’t ready for sleep either, so you asked for some bread and butter. Alastor sat beside you at the table, watching you look around. It didn’t look like a killer's home.

“Ya know, I was going to rob you. I had been wanting to talk to you, before that guy caught me off guard when I was smoking.” You said it easily.

He smiled, “Oh, why’d you change your mind?”

“Well, you slit a man’s throat in front of me.”

“Tsk tsk, you give up too easily, my dear.”

Salted butter, soft bread. Simple. Happy. “You were so handsome-,”

“We’re?”

A snort of a laugh, rolling your eyes dramatically, “and you looked well off. I was searching the room for the lights reflecting off of your glasses all night.”

Alastor grimaced, fighting the well of his ego, and leaned on his elbows, “Is it too morbid to say I’m glad that man tried to kill you? I like this timeline more than being robbed and never seeing you again.”

“That’s very selfish. I would have enjoyed chasing you down and finessing your wallet off you.” You set the glass lid back over the butter dish, content with the snack. “Some men come back actually and confront me at the theater.”

He howled. The idea was ridiculous, “Seriously? Why not just tell the cops.”

“Men don’t like telling other men they got taken for a ride by a dame.”

Alastor stood, “What would you have done if you had robbed me and I marched into the theater demanding my cash back.” It took a second to realize he was being serious in wanting you to play along.

You popped the last piece of bread into your mouth and stood too, “You rake!” A fake smack to his chest, “I booted you to the curb! You had more hands than an octopus!”

Alastor tried to stay in character but his smile kept cracking through his serious face. “And my wallet? None of my hands can find it.” You took a few steps back, feigning shock at the accusation.

“Sir! You were so drunk I’m not surprised you lost it.” When Alastor closed the space between you with two wide steps and pulled you into his chest you giggled, hitting softly at him, “You should be ashamed of yourself. Trying to take advantage,” his hands wandered down your hips, making your voice catch in your throat, “of a good woman like me.”

His mouth came to your ear, “Well, miss, I think you owe me the opportunity to try again.”

You went stiff against him, the sudden turn of his voice into seduction taking you by surprise, “If you were a real mark, I’d punch you in the face for saying that.”

“But for me?” Breath against your neck.

Your hands slid up his chest and to his collar, pulling him down and into a kiss. His smile spread across your lips.

His mouth stayed against your cheek as he pulled you into a hug, “Ready for bed?”

“Are you sleepy, hun?” You pulled away, a sincerely worried face. Two nights now you’d interrupted his normal routine.

Alastor’s eyes seemed to sparkle behind his glasses, head shaking, “No, not at all.” You felt the heat rise up your face. Wanting to avoid assumptions, you tried to temper your expectations.

His hand pulled you toward the stairs, you dragging your feet, “Did you want to show me around?”

“In the daylight.” He led you up the stairs and to the right.

“Oh okay….”, your mind was reeling, mouth dry. No dead body in sight. No blood. You hadn’t pressed him or asked for anything. Maybe he just wanted a good cuddle, or some kisses. You often enjoyed necking near the car before he would go home. Right. Let him lead.

You followed him, letting him guide you hand in hand back to his bedroom.

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷ masterlist

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar,@straows , @alastorssimp , @angelicwillows , @b-o-n-e-daddy , @one-and-only-tay , @asleeponelmstreet , @tremendoushearttaco , @mutifandomkid , @sapphirecaelis , @itzzzkiramylove@saccharine-nectarine , @viannasthings , @looking1016 , @ultimate-duck-king-lucifer , @blakeaha , @astraechos , @reath-solia ,

🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan

@faeoffaith , sailorsmouth , @jeannyjaykaydeh , @jyoongim , @cosmic-lavender , @saturn-alone , @lustylita , @radio-darling , @kaylopolis , @dickmastersworld , @leviskittywh0re , @asianfrustration13 @alittletiredcry @sirens-and-moonflowers @alastorssimp , @angelxx7 , @katgirl05 , @impulsivethoughtsat2am , @sugurubabe , @zzzykiek , @phamtasic

#human alastor x reader #alastor x reader #alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel alastor #human alastor #alastor smut #alastor x you

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in1-nutshell · 2 months

Text

Ratchet's daughter with the opposite personality meets MTMTE Ratchet

SFW, Platonic, Familial, from poll, Cybertronain reader

TFP/MTMTE

Buddy was starting to think that maybe these little portals were going to become a thing for her. If it was, she was going to start a personal log for it.

Earlier…

The Decepticons had found the location of their base.

They needed to leave.

Optimus was instructing everyone to go their separate ways until they could regroup.

To avoid any call to attention, each Autoboot was to go their separate ways.

That meant Ratchet and Buddy would be separated.

Buddy was nervous being away from her family.

Away from her father.

Buddy holding Ratchet’s servo as Prime activates the groundbridge.

Ratchet’s hold tightens a bit as the swirls grow brighter.

Buddy takes one last look as she looks at the Prime in front.

She slowly let’s go of Ratchet’s servo and walks to the portal.

She takes one last look at her family before running through.

If she went any slower, she would have surely turned back.

She stepped into a mountainous terrain. Perfect for hiding from anyone.

Buddy spent two weeks in the rock formations, constantly looking out for anything familiar or any contact.

She did cry a couple nights wondering what had happened to her team and father.

She missed them all dearly.

That’s when she saw another portal.

Too shocked the portal sucked her in without a second thought.

When Buddy woke up, she looked at an unfamiliar ceiling.

A medical room’s ceiling to be exact.

She slowly lifted her helm.

“Don’t do that. You hit your helm hard when you came in through the portal.”--Ratchet

Buddy turning towards the voice to see… Ratchet?

“Ratchet?”--Buddy

Ratchet turns around and walks towards her with a data pad in his servos.

“I’m guessing you have a Ratchet in your universe.”--Ratchet

Buddy nodding slowly.

“…You’re taking this strangely well. This your first time dealing with this type of thing?”--Ratchet

“Actually, I have dealt with dimensional stuff before. Though they came to my universe instead of me to theirs.”--Buddy

First Aid, Ambulon, and Velocity walked into the room.

“Oh! She’s awake. I’m First Aid and this is Ambulon and Velocity.”—First Aid

Ambulon waves as Velocity gives Buddy a warm smile.

“Wow… I haven’t seen another medical bot in forever.”--Buddy

“What do you mean by that?”--Ambulon

“In my universe it’s just me and Ratchet.”--Buddy

Ratchet now looking concerned.

“Just you and my alternative? What group were you two sent to?”--Ratchet

“Group? We don’t have a group. It’s just the last eight of us.”--Buddy

“…Eight as in a squad, right?”—First Aid

“Eight as in the only Autobots left.”--Buddy

Ambulon drops his datapad, Velocity lets out a large gasp, First Aid and ratchet flinch a bit.

Ratchet places a servo on Buddy’s shoulder.

“Well, you’re safe now kid. At least until Brainstorm finds a way to take you back.”--Ratchet

Buddy nods and vents a bit.

“What’s your designation?”--Velocity

“Buddy.”--Buddy

The medical team raised an optic.

“Buddy?”—all the medics

Buddy crosses her arms a bit.

“My first father gave me it. Before the war started.”--Buddy

“First father?”--Ratchet

“The war? That’s been over for a while now.”--Velocity

Buddy slowly moving her helm towards Velocity.

“What…”--Buddy

“The war is over in this universe kid. Megatron surrendered.”--Ambulon

CLANG!

Buddy faints on the med slab.

“…”—All the medics

“At least she was here when she fainted.”—First Aid

“Kid, appreciate the optimism, but now is not the time.”--Ratchet

Eventually when she recovered from the shock, Buddy put on a brave face and followed Ratchet and First Aid to the main bridge.

Ratchet felt Buddy hold his servo with a death grip when she saw Megatron, but he had to give it to her, she had a pretty good brave face.

She even managed to take her servo out to shake it to the former war lord.

Buddy shaking Megatron’s servo.

“Pleasure to meet you sir.”--Buddy

Megatron, a bit surprised, shakes his servo.

“Thank you…”--Megatron

“Buddy. My designation is Buddy.”--Buddy

“Buddy? That sounds like an earthy name. Were you named on Earth?”--Rodimus

“No sir—”--Buddy

“Please call me Rodimus, Rodimus Prime, Co-captain of the Lost Light.”--Rodimus

Buddy’s optics widen as she lets go of Megatron’s servo.

“Prime?! You’re a Prime!?”--Buddy

Rodimus puffing his chassis a bit.

“Yes, I am—”--Rodimus

“Is Optimus okay!? What happened? Is Orion okay?!”--Buddy

“What—”--Rodimus

It was going to take a while longer than expected for the portal to Buddy’s dimension to work, but Buddy didn’t seem to mind it too much.

Yes, she was worried for her family back at home.

But this beat staying alone in the mountain range.

Buddy naturally met Drift soon enough after spending so much time with Ratchet and Rodimus.

Drift and Buddy got along like a house fire.

Buddy got excited to see the samurai bot every time he came by the med bay.

Drift popping by the med bay.

“Hello!”--Drift

Buddy looking at him with a wide smile.

“Hi Drift!”--Buddy

“How’s the meditations working?”--Drift

“Iffy, its kind of hard for me to get. But I’ll get it sooner or later.”--buddy

“I trust you with that. You’re almost as stubborn as Ratchet.”--Drift

“Is that a challenge?”--Buddy

“I mean—”--Drift

CRUNCH!

Drift accidentally stepping on a wrench.

Buddy venting a bit.

“Drift… I needed that.”--Buddy

“Sorry!”--Drift

Meanwhile Ratchet on the other side of the med bay.

“…Why do I get the sudden feeling of pride?”--Ratchet

So many bots found themselves starting to get soft spots for the new member of the Lost Light.

And it wasn’t intentional.

Buddy was one, soft spoken and gentle in nature. And two was the youngest bot on board.

It was only natural that Buddy would get some special treatment.

Buddy sitting with Rodimus and the Rod Squad.

“What else do you want to know?”--Buddy

Swerve passing Buddy a flavored non-engex drink.

“Your fuel levels were pretty low when we checked, care to explain?”--Whirl

Buddy chugging down the drink.

“Woah…”--Rewind

Buddy finishing the drink.

“What do you mean?”--Buddy

“One. Impressive drinking skill Buddy.”--Whirl

Whirl patting Buddy on the helm.

“Two, a little bird told us that the levels were bone dry. You trying some new diet?”—Whirl

“Whirl how—“—First Aid

Whirl shushing the medic.

“I have my ways.”--Whirl

“Nope. That’s just how they are with our reserves.”--Buddy

“…”—Rod squad

Buddy happily drinking more energon.

“How-how low were the reserves.”--Tailgate

Buddy side glancing at Ratchet.

“Low enough for me to find Ratchet slipping his rations back, I started doing the same. We weren’t needed out in the field much, we don’t need that much fuel. The team needs it more—”--Buddy

Buddy get hugged by Tailgate who is just sobbing on her shoulder.

“Oh, don’t cry Tailgate. I’m fine.”--Buddy

“Yeesh. You sure your not related to Ratchet?”--Whirl

“Ratchet is my father.”--Buddy

“…”—Rod squad

“WHAT!?”—Rod squad

“… I think I made a mistake…”—Buddy

Rodimus draped both his arm over Drift and Ratchet.

“Congratulations you two.”--Rodimus

Ratchet tries to talk, but ends up stuttering, while Drift is just frozen in place with a big smile off his face plate.

“Wait—”--Buddy

“Shush! I bet Buddy got most of Drift’s personality and ratchet’s profession. It all makes sense now!”--Whirl

“Hold on—"--Buddy

Whirl slamming his claws on the table.

“I demand to see a DNA Test!”--Whirl

“Whirl that won’t—”—First Aid

“We need the tests!”--Swerve

“OH, MY PRIMUS I’M ADOPTED YOU BUCKET OF BOLTS!”--Buddy

“…”

Buddy hiding her face with her servos.

“Sorry…”--Buddy

“…Adopted or not she’s definitely your kid Ratchet.”--Drift

Buddy peaks out to see Ratchet looking at her with a smile.

“At least one version of me has something to look forward to.”--Ratchet

Buddy smiles brightly at the comment.

“…but seriously. The tests…”--Whirl

“I can make one!”--Brainstorm

“Brainstorm no!”--Perceptor

“Brainstorm yes!”--Brainstorm

A week later the portal was finally fixed.

It was a tearful set of goodbyes from everyone.

Especially from Ratchet and Drift.

“Hopefully we’ll see each other again.”--Buddy

“Maybe, who knows with the Lost Light.”--Drift

“Yeah, yeah, now go on. My alternative is waiting for you.”--Ratchet

Buddy smiles and jumps into the portal.

When she got out of the portal, she was back in the mountain range.

This time her comms and messages were flooded with unread messages and missed calls.

Buddy let out her SOS button and sat down on a nearby rock.

She would be with her family soon enough.

#transformers x reader #maccadam #bot buddy #tfp #tfp x reader #tfp ratchet x platonic reader #tfp ratchet #mtmte x reader #tfp x platonic reader #mtmte ratchet #mtmte drift #tfp ratchet daughter

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sunsents · 1 year

Text

Neteyam - Reacting to your death

Hey y'all, how y'all doing 😟? It's been a year since I published something but I am in my avatar era. I will post an announcement about where I've been, but enjoy(?) this heavy angsty.

Summary —> You're on your last breath, and Neteyam has a hard time accepting it.

Pairing: neteyamsully x !reader (no use of y/n)

Word count: 1024

Warnings: blood/angst/mentions of a g*n/sad neteyam

DON’T REPOST MY WORK

Sharp pain was all you could feel when you jumped down the ship. It was that short moment of pushing Neteyam before you to minimize exposure that the realization hit you; you followed after him without thinking twice about the consequences, yet again.

Your ears rang in the otherwise silent ocean, like the water completely separated itself from the unnatural, unnecessary and foreign violence happening in the surface. A sigh of relief, contentment, serenity, until you're resurfucing again - or rather, struggling to.

"Fuck," you sputter, feeling a strange loss.

Lo'ak shouts after you to hurry up, but you can't, and it frustrates you. You hate falling behind, no matter how dire the injury is. "You sxkawng," gasping and trying to hold onto something, crimson surrounds you. "I'm shot."

Everyone stills.

Neteyam's head whips around with nothing but pure, unadulterated horror. His eyes fall on your pained face, then the bullet wound on your chest. You can see dark shadows casting over his face, the tremor of his hands, the slowing of his breath - all working together to keep his gears turning you assume. He quickly swims forward. "Quick, the Ilu."

You feel yourself being held around your body - suddenly, warmth feels like an unfamiliar concept. When had you become so cold to the outside world? When had you closed yourself off that warmth was foreign?

Though in odd, you fashion, you're not panicking. You're just lying there, gazing at the sky and letting chaos erupt around you. Sounds are muffled, and you don't know what's happening but you can only assume they're taking you to land.

The sky looks uncharacteristically blue - against all odds you've found yourself in. Eywa is in mourning.

Maybe it's because you cannot fathom that you, your own life, cannot end. You feared losing loved ones, but never feared nor thought about dying. It's not like you were immortal of course, one day you were going to leave the physical world and join the all mother amongst your family.

You just didn't think it would happen this soon. And you still think against it - you think against it when Mr Sully lays you down on cold rock, when he turns you over to inspect something, and when he looks at you with a faraway look.

"Dad," Neteyam chokes out.

Everything hurts and you start struggling to breath. Light headed, that's when you stop thinking all together.

"Am I-" you gasp for air, surprised that you, out of all people, is struggling to speak. You were quite chatty, at least that's what they told you. "Am I, dying?"

"No!" yells Neteyam, he's cupping your head with his palm, not letting your head touch the cold surface. "You're not dying, ____!"

He's sobbing, and you look around the faces of the people you consider loved ones. Lo'ak is wide eyed, staring at your probably paled face. He looks in utter agony and...confusion? Mr. Sully is crying, this is the first time you have seen him cry - be so vulnerable. He was Toruk Makto, so he'd always dismiss you with a nod, sometimes crack a joke here and there but stay stern all the while. He was clutching your hand, his own shaking. Kiri was just now arriving at the little land formation, and the look of her horror on her face brings tears to your eyes. You were dying - no. You were dead, it was final.

You try to calm your breathing, an obscene contrast to the gushing blood on your chest. You couldn't speak, but you could feel. And you were feeling the love of the people around you - and with the intensity of it, you deemed it a worthy way to go.

Neteyam however, was cluthing on your hand, hard. "You are not leaving me ____....Dad!" he sobs, a wretched sound breaking through his chest as he doubles over your body and shudders. "Do something!"

He's yelling, screeching even. His dad looks in anguish at his son's state, or perhaps because he feels utterly helpless at saving you.

"It's okay, Neteyam." you say softly, in a very wispy voice; "You're going to be okay."

You smile, and he screams, trashing and hugging your body to his chest. You try to push him away, but to no avail. Your limbs have fallen weak, you have already accepted the pain. "No!" he screams again, chest reverbeting against your deflating form.

"No, no, no, no!"

Mr Sully grabs ahold of his son and softly pulls him back, seperating him from you, "Son, please," his voice sounds broken.

Lo'ak is silent beside you, head held down, shuddering. Warm droplets are hitting your arm, and you can only guess it's tears. Kiri is on her knees, begging To Great Mother.

But you know it's final. And you don't feel too sad about it. You'd get to be with your parents, and Eywa, and all that. You'd be happy, you know you would be.

"____! No, I have to tell-" Neteyam gasps, trashing in his fathers hold. "I love you, I see you. Please,"

You're eyes have finally glazed over, you're gone.

You hadn't heard, and that only breaks Neteyam more. He screams in agony, clawing at your body, shaking you so, somehow, miraculously, you would open your eyes, tell him you love him and that you wan't to spend the rest of your life with him.

But there is no, "rest”. This was it for you, this was your life. When you had told him that you wanted to spend your life exploring Pandora, this was the extent. You would never have that, you will never be able to fulfill your dream because this day was the entirety of your future and present.

Neteyam is helpless. He had somehow escaped his fathers hold and was hugging your lifeless body close to his. Shrieks were ripping from his throat, desperately trying to transfer some sort of energy into your limbs. He could feel his mother's warmth surround him, a weak force pulling him back. "Please, don't. Let me hold her."

He sounded so broken, empty, purposeless that his mother and father break down as well.

#neteyam #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #avatar twow #avatar #avatar 2 #avatar the way of water #neteyam imagine #kiri sully #tuk #loak #loak sully #loak x reader #jake sully #neytiri #neytiri sully #angst #avatar angst

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leggerefiore · 2 months

Note

What would happen if Maxie, Archie, Cyrus, and Guzma had their s/o fall asleep against them?

sleepy time....

cw: fluff

characters: Maxie, Archie, Cyrus, Guzma

☀️Maxie🌋

🪨 You both had been at Mt. Chimney together on an outing due to Maxie's strange fixation with the location. It seemed his love for volcanic bodies simply could not be contained today, so you had hung around him as he lost himself in the fascinating world of volcanic igneous rocks. Hiking around a volcanic mountain proved tiring pretty quickly, however. The endless heat from the lava pooled within the belly of the formation led to you feeling exhausted by the time Maxie felt ready to leave. It was no wonder your eyes just seemed to drift close the second you both sat down in the Cable Car to ride back down to route 112. Your head leaned against Maxie's shoulder, and you just drifted off.

🪨 Maxie was about to ask what you were doing when you failed to move after what he deemed too long for a show of affection. His eyes shifted over to you, and he immediately shut his mouth. Your eyes were just closed as you took steady, soft breaths. Instantly, he realised that you had fallen asleep. Normally, he might not be one for these things, often shunning any public displays of affection or something like falling asleep in public, but he bit his tongue. It was just you two in the Cable Car. He sighed. You looked so peaceful, too. Just once, he would make an exception.

🪨 He hated to wake you, but when the Cable Car came to a stop, Maxie shook you lightly as the door slid open. You opened your eyes with a yawn and looked around, confused for a moment before coming to the realisation about what had happened. The Magma Leader chose to just help you out of the vehicle and down onto solid ground again. You laughed it off in the end as you both headed out towards Lavaridge to stay the night at a local inn. Maxie, however, felt that he would strangely cherish the moment.

🌧Archie🌊

💧 Archie had insisted on you joining him out for a swim, to which you relented. You did not expect his choice of route 132, however. The harsh currents almost swept you away many times as you tried to fight against them. A few times had you needing to be rescued by the pirate before you got taken away by the ocean back to Slateport. It was a bit embarrassing watching some children from the nearby Pacifidlog town navigate the waters better than you. By the time you both found yourselves resting on a beach after the swim, you leaned your head against Archie's shoulder and collected yourself. Yet, somewhere between the hot sun beating down on your both and the exhaustion from all the swimming, you found yourself dozing off into sleep.

💧 The water-loving man barely thought much of it when you laid your head against his shoulder for a moment longer than usual. After all, the ocean was a gorgeous sight and something to deeply enjoy beside one's lover. It was how your body pressed against his, so limply, that made him turn his gaze to you. Your sleeping face made him grin bigger than usual. Slow breaths made your chest rise and fall as he held back the laugh that wanted to leave him. You were too cute, he swore. His Luvdisc was all tired out from swimming with him. His arm came to grasp your side as he held you to him.

💧 Yet, eventually, all things had to end. As the sun slowly shifted across the sky and waves lapped closer and closer to the shore, Archie sighed as he shook you awake. You grumbled at first but eventually opened your eyes. Surprised instantly overtook your face as you realised how much time had passed. Archie finally got his laugh at your reaction. You both finally truly left the ocean for the day to head off back to Lilycove. The Aqua Leader committed the moment to his memory of cute moments with his Luvdisc.

🌌Cyrus🛰

☄️ What had suddenly overtaken Cyrus to want to venture up Mount Coronet was certainly beyond you. His utter fascination with the mountain bewildered you to no end, as it seemed to spring up suddenly with his infatuation with Sinnoh's myths. Joining him proved itself quickly taxing as the mountain's cave wound itself around confusingly, then exposing you to the wintery chill of the peak. Cyrus had seemed completely unbothered throughout it all. It had taken up nearly the whole day, and you felt exhausted on the train ride back to Veilstone out from whatever city you both departed. As soon as you were in the seat, you leaned yourself against him and closed your eyes. It would be a while before you reached the station, after all. You barely gave it a thought as you fell asleep.

☄️ Cyrus wanted to ask you why you were pressed so close to him. He normally chose to ignore your more persistent affections in public, finding it useless to try to stop you. Instead, he focused on preserving his emotionless image. His eyes shifted over to the sight of your reflection in the train window across from you two. Your eyes were closed and did not open after a few moments. He sighed. Did you really asleep on public transport? Well, he supposed he was there to watch over you, so it was not as dangerous. You looked too peaceful to awaken, too. Sleeping was important, he knew. Even his HQ had a nap room. Yes, he would allow you to rest until the next station was nearby.

☄️ When that time came, he softly shook you awake. His heart dropped at the way tour brows knitted together for a moment. Your eyes then opened as you lifted yourself away from him and yawned. He hated how the word cute crossed his mind at the sight. You rubbed your eyes as the train came to a stop, and the announcer called out the station name. Cyrus took your hand and began to lead you off the train, aware you were not awake enough yet. You both headed home together for a much-needed evening of rest. The Galactic Boss recalls the memory with a pang in his heart, sporadically. Hopefully, his new world would grant you the peace to sleep like that more.

🕶Guzma💀

□ Somehow, a sudden downpour had crept across Alola while you and Guzma spent a rare moment trying to have a real date in the Malie Garden. It led to you both rushing away under one of the roofed coverings with a bench. While it may have been no different from the endless rain that poured upon Po town, it seemed to grow more aggressive quickly. You pressed yourself into Guzma's side, feeling a little chilled from your clothing having got wet. He pressed you closer to his side, even slipping off his jacket for you to wear. Somehow, between the comforting warmth of Guzma and the rain fall turning lighter into a rhythmic tap on the roof, you felt your eyes slowly drift shut.

□ As the rain slowed to a pace that felt navigable to get out of the garden, he turned to you to offer to head out but was surprised. Under his arm and nuzzled up against him, you had fallen asleep. For a moment, he felt bewildered. How had you done that in this weather? But, then he considered how peaceful it had become when it lightened up. He wanted to grumble about becoming your pillow, but your sleeping expression silenced him. The big, bad boss was completely domesticated in that moment. Fine, you could nap for a minute. At least you were no longer shaking from the cold.

□ He woke you up when the rain came to a complete stop. Guzma figured there were better places to nap than here, and if the weather got bad again, he would rather you two be inside somewhere. You whined when he shook you, pleading for five more minutes. He responded cruelly by sneaking back his jacket. You finally woke up to the sun breaking through the clouds. He helped get you up and began to head out of the garden to make the long trek back to Po town. There, you could both change into something comfortable and nap the afternoon away for a change. The Skull Boss sighed as the memory crossed his mind at a later date. You were preferred to whatever Ultra Space had to offer.

#pokemon x reader #cyrus x reader #guzma x reader #archie x reader #maxie x reader #pokemon/reader #pokemon cyrus x reader #pokemon guzma x reader #pokemon archie x reader #pokemon maxie x reader #cyrus/reader #guzma/reader #archie/reader #maxie/reader

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k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9 · 1 year

Audio

The Smiths –Is It Really So Strange?

#The Smiths #Louder Than Bombs #Is It Really So Strange?#Format: CD Compilation Reissue #Genre: Post punk./ New Wave./ alternative rock #compilation #UK

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himbocoups · 10 months

Text

˗ˋˏ Epistolary Yearning ˎˊ˗ | 18+ Only

synopsis: a series of letters, speckled with notes of budding romance and longing, exchanged between a newly married couple separated by seas and the ongoing war the emperor sent his commander to end.

pairing: duke!lsm x reader (gn afab)

genre: epistolary form, historical fantasy, romance | smut

tags: arranged marriage, mentions of a war, dk and yn accidentally invent the concept of planes, two people very much falling in love | degrading, fingering, guided play, honey play, marking, mirror play, pet names, praise, pussy slapping, riding, spitting, squirting…

wc: 5.13k

message from nu: fueled by my love for historical, fantasy, and isekai manhuas. big thank you to my beta readers (@heartkyeom, @aceofvernons, and @multi-kpop-fanfics) for reading when I was playing with the format of this fic + @junkissed with helping out with the syntax for this one very confusing line I wrote. also summoning @onlyseokmins bc I told her I'd tag her once duke!dk was finished <3

himbocoups's masterlist

Letter One - YN

My Lord,

How are you? I hope your trip is going as smoothly as planned.

It has been a while since I last heard from you. As Summer comes to a fading end, Autumn threatens to wash the foliage to hues of brown and auburn. And I sit at the library nook beside the window, taking quill to parchment against the cover of a heavily bound book and scratching against blank pages before I can muster the courage to write to you. I do sincerely apologize if this attempt seems strange.

Though I pity our brief time together, the only things I familiarized myself with are your scintillant eyes. Maybe instead of feeling as dull as the color of nature, I’ll think about how the color is reminiscent of your eyes. Eyes, these beautiful jewels seem to reflect the light through your smile. I can’t help but imagine myself as the last person to see them every night as I lay beside you as we drift off into slumber. Would it be too forward of me to say that the thought of growing fond of you, not just your eyes, is slowly appealing more and more to me?

However, I do have hesitations as I am left alone to roam these lonely halls in a place so unfamiliar to me. It would be a pity shall I reach familiarity with my surroundings before I become familiar with you. Or even worse, to have you forget your familiarity with me.

Please be safe for me. Hurry home soon.

Letter Two - DK

My Jewel,

For someone who longs for familiarity, you need not create even more distance between us through formalities. And my love, you need not refer to me as your Lord. Love is all I ask for, as love is what you will always be to me. Albeit, I do find it disheartening to read that you think of me so lowly. I could never forget someone as precious as you, even if you do not believe in your preciousness.

Nevertheless, I, too, pity the brevity of our time together. Marriage agreed upon through an exchanging of letters by our guardians, now our marriage follows suit in the epistolary form. Yet no descriptive access through penmanship could ever grant the feeling that blossomed inside me and continues to bloom since I first laid my eyes upon you. And on the eve of the third week of our matrimony, I was whisked away to end the war. I do sincerely apologize for my absence.

On this rocking ship, all I can do is stare into the swirling sea in search of a passing merchant ship with letters to deliver. The birds that soar above me seem to provoke me with their independence, cawing in hearty guffaw at the fact that this poor man can never take flight at any moment back into his lover’s arms - where he feels most at home.

Maybe we should take giant birds instead of ships, soaring in the skies and reaching our destination in an instant. How wondrous that would be.

But I am an equally lonesome Commander among his squadron, a man who keeps the first letter from his lover in the pocket against his breast and his wedding band around his neck. Just thinking about how you were thinking about me while writing that letter, still thinking about me, conciliates any disarray in my mind. And I promise you that I will make you feel loved for the rest of your life, even if our love is only budding.

I will lead my men well. Then I will lead myself home. To you.

Letter Three - YN

My Dokyeom (If it is fine to refer to you in this way),

I do have to admit to my shyness, how my face flushed with heat when you referred to me as your beloved. Your “love”…my goodness, our servants nearly called the doctor over when they saw my state of awe. Although, I do apologize if the language in my initial letter seemed blunt or made you feel even a hint of sadness that I accidentally made you for a man with a cold demeanor.

You wrote: “Maybe we should take giant birds instead of ships, soaring in the skies and reaching our destination in an instant” in our last exchange. What a preposterous idea! But what a new discovery to find that you are as funny as you are charming. Shall we commission a local alchemist to create potions that magnify tiny sparrows to large ships? Or shall I ditch my archery lessons in exchange for nights in your magnificent library, scouring the archives with the hope to find a recipe to an enlarging potion hidden in a romance novel?

Oh, how I wish everything could be as easy as depicted in romance novels or that one Opera we went to watch. Days consume me on end. Not in the way in which I consume much of my leisure time by staying in the places we frequented in our time together, but in the way in which time passes by so slowly it feels like the concept of time is consuming me instead. I wish it were you who were consuming me even though I do feel it through your love. Because I, too, keep your letter near me. And I trace over the areas your quill indented the parchment, so much that I sometimes end up smudging the dried ink with my hand.

I do miss you...even more when everything around me reminds me of you. Because you, who makes silly promises about a budding romance, will also be the receiver of my elementary promise about my slowly collecting love for you.

P.S. They are close to finishing our portraits. I have yet to decide where they are to be hung.

Letter Four - DK

My Love,

My Seokmin. Seok. Min. Mine. Beloved. Love. Dearest. Husband. Equal. Anything but Duke, Lord, Commander, or Dokyeom is welcome. How I wish for the day I get to hear my name leave your lips through a soft murmur, laughter, greeting, whisper, and mayhaps even a whine.

Honeymoon was cut short by my trip across the sea. We are finally on land. In front of me is a crackling campfire whose glow conceals the redness of my cheeks, dappled with jubilance from reading your last letter.

My dearest shy and humble lover whose metaphoric propositions of love are anything but reticent, I have annotated my favorite portions and circled words that I replay in my mind as a source of comfort. However, like what you did with your quotation of my imaginary bird ship, I must reference a few nuances in your letter that I find interesting. Particularly, I find that you must be careful in formatting your syntax, my beloved — for your way of language is enough to drive a sane man mad. Just think of me: a sane man before I had you and now a man slowly falling madly in love with you.

Referring back to how time achingly consumes you, your “I wish it were you who were consuming me. Although I do feel it through your love” causes me to quiver in a way that is only shared between two lovers. I am a man whose honeymoon was interrupted by the king’s call, a man who is weeks without his lover, a man who has needs - desires. And your need for me to consume you? I can only pluck it out of context.

If everything around you reminds you of me, then I must tell you that I hope your reminder does not make you suffer as how I suffer. My love, do you know how painful it was to lay in my bed while the ship continually rocked back and forth? It was reminiscent of our second week together when you decided to mount me in bed, your beautiful opalescent undergarment covering an action so lewd that it could never be named in public. Yet I was a man on a ship with his aching cock in his hand, imagining his newly beloved on top of him who squeezes him tightly as they ride his lap.

No hand could ever replace the fervor of having you rock me, leaning forward to kiss me down my naked chest while sucking and licking the thin area of skin right above my collarbone. How warmly your walls enveloped my own, squeezing and contrasting with every glide you make. I couldn’t help but twitch in you, trying to hold in my selfishness by grabbing onto your thighs - kneading and feeling the skin fill the areas between my fingers. But you bounced on my lap like a bunny in heat, causing my hands to trail further upwards until they lay on your ass…I wanted to worship you by turning myself into a throne, a marble stand so others could be in awe of you for centuries to come.

Mouth unable to talk, your kitten drooled onto my lap and coated the surface with liquid lust while you whimpered as I praised you for treating me so well. I scooped the syrup from the maple tap and brought it to my mouth to suck; even now I can still feel your sweet syrup rest on my tongue and swirl in my mouth. Yet there I was on that boat, losing my mind with my hand on my tap. Bed sheets soaked with my sweat, I could only imagine that it was your sweat-glistened skin that stuck against mine. It was but a shame, and still is but a shame, that the image of you collapsed against my chest with exhaustion when your thighs trembled with such a quake only exists as a memory. How long would it take for me to turn the memory of me looping my arms around your back and pushing your upper body against mine, feeling you build and crash through a scream, into our reality?

The land is no better than the sea. Truly, it must be treason to think such impure thoughts while riding on my finest stallion to head to our base. I am a Commander, a Duke for God’s sake. But the bouncing, the clopping - oh, beloved, my skin pricked with heat so much that I thought bandits were ambushing us. The pain I felt while I waited for my swelling to go down - I am utterly embarrassed to admit I almost released while riding in front of my men.

How I wish I could come running back home to you. Shall I single-handedly overturn the monarchy so we can be equal partners to the throne? So that we can be rulers who need not leave our estate? Just give me the word, and the empire will be yours. Then I would never need to leave your side. That I guarantee.

P.S. Hang the portrait wherever you please. Perhaps the ballroom so I would always be with you during the night of the balls.

Letter Five - YN

My King,

How mad of you to write such vulgarities, to suggest usurping the throne only if it means being able to stay with me. You are a Commander. You are a Duke. You are one of the King’s men. Do you not fear the inevitable consequences that you would face should your letter be opened by anybody other than myself? Do you not fear what would happen to you if your lust-driven joke was wrongly taken for treason? I must say that despite everything, I found myself dipping a finger into your words and listening to my juices sing your letter like lyrics.

Your words comforted my ache at my core, skillfully fighting fire with fire to extinguish my burning forest. However, if you were to turn into a mere object – a chair, a throne, a stand – I would never be satisfied in your worship. ‘Tis true that I would like to be worshiped by you like the first time your palm cupped my face in private confinement under the shade of the gazebo in the garden. With nobody around us, your face softened to reveal the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. Earnest eyes flittered to and fro as you studied me in awe and whispered words of praise. Up until then, I never even knew you could worship a person such as me. Yet, you, a mere stranger I met a few hours ago, placed a kiss upon my lips as soft as the petals on the flowers that surrounded us.

If worshipping me means an inanimate you, I don’t think there would be anybody who could worship me with such sincerity and reason as you do…and I quite like the animate you even if the animate you screamed at the bug upon your sleeve. I couldn’t stop laughing then. And when you looked back at me with those bashful eyes, I knew this would be a marriage filled with laughter.

Laughter, as I have recently learned, doesn’t only exist jovially. No. Reading your comment about my syntax, I almost erupted in a peal of sinister laughter. My poor lover with his cock in his hand and his quill in his other and his attempt to warn someone with such an extensive educational background about their syntax…you are too pure for this world. Should it make you feel better in any way, I have also thought about you in ways such a person in my stature should never.

The other day when I was particularly distracted by the particular “unease” that had been building inside me, I accidentally launched a practice arrow into the wind. Chasing it, I happened upon our agriculture stables where the young workers sit and milk our cows. I swear, I must have been in such a delusional state to feel such a rush just from watching the motion of our cows getting milked that I ran off to the kitchens without picking up my stray arrow.

Can you believe it, my dear? Have you been thinking of me differently since I admitted to almost leaking when I saw the cows getting milked? Would you think of me even differently if I told you I thought of you while talking to our ice sculptors? If you can quench my thirst on my loneliest days, I can only imagine what taking you in paired with ice would feel like for both you and me.

Mayhaps, we should convene in the kitchen at night after the bell strikes twelve when all of our kitchen staff have retired. I want to kiss you with cherry-stained lips, watching tint transfer onto yours as I play with the seed of the fruit in my mouth while I wait for our cups of tea to steep. Kissing, I hope, would act as an analgesic for your painfully sleepless nights. Still, I find it abstruse that a kind, gentle, and good man like you would live such a cathartic life as a commander. Enerverated in every way as I am, I can only offer a somnolent kiss in hopes of luring you to sleep before your tea can fully steep.

“What is a man without his honey,” you would say. Then I would ask you to specify what type of honey you are referring to.

You would reply with this cheekiness in your voice while your lips pull into a wide smile, “the syrup.” If I’m not wrong, you would peck the top of my head while you reach over me to grab the jar that the cook keeps at the counter for you to easily access. Because the man with a honeyed siren voice that often procures lullabies for me to fall asleep also has a taste for the pollinators’ syrup.

As you can tell…we are not simple people. We are not a regular couple. We have exchanged letters for longer than we have physically been together. So when I tell you to close your eyes to try to find your honey, would you? If I blindfolded you with a kitchen towel and told you to search for the dab of honey I swatched on my body, could you do it? Would you go to the lengths just to search for the honey to your tea?

Would you use your nose and sniff along my skin, searching for the floral and fruity aroma? Gently picking up my arm and bringing it to your nose, would you gently guide your nose along the surface of my skin in a position so intimate that you feel my arm hairs tickle the tip of your nose? Would you guide your nose upwards along my arm until you arrive at my collarbone, sniffing and docilely licking areas you think to be as sweet as honey?

Imploring you in your reconnoiter, I must keep quiet as I watch you blindly explore every groove of the topography of my body. I imagine myself tilting my head towards the side to allow you access to the side of my neck, sharply breathing in as you nose the area in which I am the most sensitive. I see you hesitate for a second before planting your supple lips against the skin as if to sample before making a decision. To your surprise, what coats your lips in a sticky and sweet amber gloss is the honey I placed on my neck slowly trailing towards my collarbone. And I watch you intently as you lick it off your lips, leaving a translucent liquid sheen.

Affected by a magnetic lure, you would somehow find yourself in front of me, your head positioned right above the slowly trailing bead of honey. It starts with a lick, hot tongue against cold skin. I can’t help but feel how the bumpy texture of your tongue cleans and pulls its way up my neck. After the hot saliva hits cold air, you take off the kitchen towel and look at me like a puppy waiting for its owner.

“Such a good boy,” I murmur as I take the towel from your hand and wrap it around the nape of your neck to pull you in closer. “How does it taste?”

What is more, is that I hope that in that moment my heart is not the only one that is beating as fast as how a hummingbird flaps its wings. My greedy husband, you back me against the kitchen island until you are pressed firmly against me as I watch and feel you bite and suck a garden of flowers across my neck and chest. Your large hands find themselves around my thighs, kneading and squeezing them so much that the fabric of my night clothes bunch in the palm of your hands. So I maneuver your hands around my waist, and you spin me around and bend me against that counter so I can feel you push yourself against me.

“Be good for me,” you would command while undressing me.

Then I would feel it, hands spreading my legs and fingers prying my ass apart, and then your warm and flat tongue against my kitten. One single lick would make my knees buckle. But you eating me out from behind, the way you knead my ass while you take your time swirling your tongue against my lips and lapping up my juices would make me come in an instant. Your tongue presses against my nub while your nose digs itself into my opening almost to the point where you’re fucking me with the tip of your nose, yet it is me who begs for air. And you keep my liquid on your tongue as you rise from your knees to pull my head back until I’m looking at you and your swollen and burgundy lips with my head tilted backward.

And you pry my mouth open with your hand and watch me catch that sweet honey on the tip of my tongue.

My dear, I am much too hot to even think about what comes after you let go of my jaw. My tenses in this letter are all mixed up because I’m so caught up in my delusions that I mistake dreams for reality. I feel ashamed to revert to such elementary composition when I am clouded by lust. But in this sensory game of wits, who do you think would win — the explorer or the explored?

P.S. I’ve had our painting temporarily hung in our dining room as I cannot even bring myself to think about the possibility of hosting a ball without you. The great ballroom has been collecting dust since the first month you left for the war. Besides, invitations to the first ball of the season have long been sent out. I attended and made some acquaintances. Are you proud of me? Are you missing me as much as I am missing you?

Letter Six - DK

My Sweet,

Loneliness is when you are trapped by your stillness while everything around you splits into two and crumbles. And you are stuck in the open space of where everything once was, you in your bubble of muteness as the world crashes and breaks in a cacophonous roar. The feeling that engulfed me during these past few months was beyond my description of loneliness. So with a happy heart, I am telling you that the war is over. I’m coming home soon to hold you in my arms, to show you what this world that surrounds you is truly like — delicate and with the warmth of a glowing morning Sun that promises juvenescent Springs until the end of time.

Regarding your question about the potential winner of the sensory game you described in your last letter, whether I am the person exploring or explored, I know I would always be the victor as only a true victor can call you “his.” My sweet love, I hope to stick by your side as long as I prefer honey in my tea and you by my side when I sleep.

However, with a slightly interruptive transition, I have a few requests regarding the contents of your postscript. That is:

One, I am wholly and with every fiber of my mind, soul, and body proud of you. You, my shyest lover who sought friendship in your moments of loneliness, I love you so. Yet I find myself utterly in distress that I cannot co-host our tea parties until later should you hold one in a few days. Our estate is boring, and it must be tiring seeing the same things and people every day for the past few months. I urge you to go out more and explore so I can come home to plentiful stories told in your voice. I want to fall asleep to your descriptions so I can dream of how you see the world around you.

Two, of course, I am missing you. Even if I were a few yards away from you, I would still miss you. I am currently bothering our treasurer in regards to spending the rest of our budget on a winter wonderland in which we would freeze the entire world so I could easily and quickly sled back home like a seal off an iceberg. However, our treasurer is insistent on saving the budget for lodging, travel, and sustenance. I, for one, think I am right.

Three, I think this might be my last letter in a while as when this stack of parchments finally reaches you, I would almost be home. So I am struggling between keeping this short and straight to the point or long and thoroughly eloquent with everything that I want to write and say to you. Instead of coming to a conclusion by myself, I bid you farewell until we meet again with this set of instructions within my set of requests for you. I’m sorry if the format of my letter makes it very hard for you to read. Like how you described your delusions, I often find myself alone at night imagining you by my side so much that I feel your physical presence next to me.

Four, as for our portrait in our dining room, I must ask you to perform a favor for me as I have not seen the finished painting myself. It is a test regarding the “likeness” of our portraits that can only be performed by yourself. When you wish to perform the test before I arrive, please excuse all our staff who stay by your side during dinner and ask to eat alone. Should they give you looks, please say that it was requested by me.

When you are alone, I need you to get into a position in which you can look at yourself through the large mirror that is mounted above the low mantle towards the end of the dining room table. I assume our portrait is hung on the wall at the other side of the dining room table, am I right? If you move the plates and sit on the table, you should be able to look at both your entire body and our portrait through the mirror. Do not worry about making a mess my dear.

Perhaps this test may be a little lewd for a dinner setting. But after your proposed rendezvous in the kitchen in your last letter, I suppose this test would be nothing to you.

Look at yourself in the mirror. Can you imagine me behind you, slowly kissing down your neck as I undress you while the candlelights flicker beside us? Our shadows cast against the walls that surround us tell the story of two lovers slowly conjoining into one. And I sit you against the front of my naked body, bending your legs and positioning them so you can see all of you through the mirror.

My love, can you see your lips unfold into a beautiful bloom, leaking with its sweet nectar for your man to taste? The sweet nectar, the glistening substitute to the honey our staff brought alongside our dinner rolls, rolls off the flower and soaks the tablecloth beneath you. Tonight I am not doing anything except revel in your beauty like a man awestruck by something so exquisite that he cannot do anything but stare.

I want you to imagine that the same me in the portrait is the me you imagine to be behind you, the very me who writes this letter and instructs you on how to pleasure yourself for the night. Suck on your own fingers, my darling. Bring your fingers to your lips, and let me see the way you ready yourself before the pleasure comes. Because what I want is for you to fuck yourself well for me so that after you’ve squirted all over the dining table your pussy continues to throb so much that you confuse it for your beating heart.

Don’t be shy. Bring your soaked fingers to your folds, and trace along the lines of the petals. Look at how they seemingly open and close as your stomach jerks in reaction. Slowly rub yourself up and down, coaxing that beautiful sigh that I know too well out of your mouth. Feel the pads of your finger mix with your juices, slipping easily and making your hand glide smoother.

Are you looking at me through the mirror? Are you begging me to instruct you in other ways to satisfy your lust? Do you want to rub your pearl and flick it with your finger in a way that makes you clench and collapse?

What is it, honey? Are you whining for me to make you feel good? But this is your guided session. Don’t you see yourself through the mirror, so pathetic looking that you would do anything that I tell you to do? Then take that same hand you used to tease yourself and slap your pussy for me. Bring the hand back and bring it down on your pussy quickly and with so much might that the sound of palm against tender skin echoes throughout the empty dining room.

Don’t you feel pathetic? Getting off from you slapping your own pussy? Doesn’t it please you and make feel so dirty at the same time? When you’re striking your palm against your pussy over and over as your other hand unconsciously reaches upwards to knead your sore nipple, are you looking at yourself through the mirror? Are you still imagining me sitting behind you on our dining table, whispering and taunting you as you attempt to come undone? If your head is not completely clouded with lust, when that pussy is throbbing with such pain and pleasure, you will take your finger to your entrance and insert it slowly so you feel your warm and wet insides slowly swallow your finger the further in it goes.

Let your mouth hang open as you plug yourself with another finger. Fill the lonely dining room with your sweet moans for me. Listen to your kitten squelch and leak the more you pump yourself so that a warm and hot feeling grows in your stomach, making you clench your body tighter and tighter. Scissor your fingers, and fill up that empty space where my cock usually rests. When you release, pull out your fingers as you come on the tablecloth and look at the cream I miss the most.

You’re so perfect, you know that? You’d look even more perfect when you’re on your knees with your fingers underneath you and inside of you. Bounce for me my sweet, ride your own fingers as if you’re riding me. Massage yourself with your other hand, grabbing and kneading your breasts and your nipples as I do for you. Can you see yourself through the mirror more clearly when you’re in this position? Do you see how messy and needy you look while you’re pathetically riding your own fingers? Do you wish they were mine? Do you wish they were my thighs?

Open your eyes for me as you reach another wave of ecstasy. Look at me in the eyes, the man painted next to your glowing figure as you reach your last high. I know you can do it. Scream my name if you love me, and squirt as if your pussy was crying for the man you love.

Turn your head around when you’ve caught your breath. Look at our portrait. Do you see how I’m smiling at you?

I’m proud of you, my love. Thank you for holding on for so long. I’ll be home soon.

P.S. I love you.

#svthub #seventeen smut #svt smut #seventeen imagines #svt imagines #dk smut #seokmin smut #dk x reader #seokmin x reader #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #dk imagines #seokmin imagines #✏️ ━ himbocoups

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italiansteebie · 11 months

Text

I could teach you waking up in my t-shirt.

also on ao3 (preferred format) 2.3k Words

Steve Harrington has a really cool T Shirt.

It was the exact type of shirt no one would expect him to wear, it was soft, and worn, and the design looked hand made, and sometimes there was a long, dark, curly, strand of hair stuck to it, like the person who made it left a piece of themselves there.

Dustin didn’t know where he got it, or how someone like Steve came across a shirt like this, but any time he asked about it, the teen got… Defensive.

Once Dustin asked Steve if he could borrow it, and Steve freaked out, like properly freaked out. So he stopped asking about it. It was a little strange how protective Steve was over the shirt, and how he never seemed to wear it to school, or outside of his house. He had to wear it somewhere though, because more often than not that long, dark, hair would be present, and Dustin knows for a fact Steve washes the shirt.

So where did he get it?

What exactly does “HellFire Club” mean?

Is it a band?

And Dustin asked all these questions only to be met with a nervous silence from Steve, which was unlike him. So, he stopped asking. There were more pressing matters than Steve’s shirt, like demodogs and Russians under the mall, and the fact that the girl Steve works with somehow knows him better than Dustin, all of a sudden.

He’s not jealous, though. Well. Not that jealous. But why does she get to know where the shirt came from, and not him? It’s Steve’s biggest mystery, and it was well kept. At least, well kept from him. He remembers the day clearly. He walked into Scoops Ahoy with Steve who already happened to be in his work uniform. He usually changes at work to avoid walking through the mall looking like a Naval monstrosity. He watches the way Robin Buckley smirks, like she’s let in on a secret, “No Hellfire shirt today, Steve-o? Trouble in paradise?” she asks slyly. “Haha. Shut up, Robin.” Steve replies through his teeth, strained. Dustin whips his head around to face Steve. “You talked to her about the shirt? C’mon, Steve! We’re friends!” Dustin whined. Steve pushed his head away, “You’re like, 5, this is grown up talk. Now get back to your mom, she’s gonna freak if you’re late for camp check in.” Dustin sighed, “Whatever. See you later, Steve!” They hugged briefly and Dustin left, the shirt and what Robin Buckley said about it, still rocking around in his brain.

But then Dustin got back from camp, with a big ass ham radio, a new, very real, girlfriend, and a Russian interception. And suddenly, the t-shirt didn’t seem all that important. In fact, Dustin forgot about it until one fateful day.

The first day of highschool.

There he was in all his glory.

Eddie Munson, and guess what he was wearing.

The shirt.

Steve’s shirt.

So Dustin made it a point to seek the guy out, and in his mission he found that HellFire was not a band, but a DnD club. And that only made him more confused, did Steve secretly belong to a party? And that’s why he never played with them? No way. The betrayal.

So, Dustin infiltrates the group.

Along with Mike, and Lucas.

Because it’s a DnD group, and well… Will’s gone, and they still wanted to play.

And they become a part of the group.

It’s fun, and the way Steve’s eyes almost bug out of his head when he sees all of them wearing his shirt is absolutely hilarious.

Dustin keeps the whole “shirt debacle” to himself. He knows that Steve was in HellFire and didn’t tell any of them. He decided to let him keep his dignity, and put the whole mystery behind him. The only strange thing was, that whenever he brought up Steve during their sessions, the rest of Hellfire got… Weird. Gareth, Jeff, and Grant would smile slyly in Eddie’s direction and Eddie would blush. Did they have some type of falling out? Eddie never seemed to want to talk about Steve, and Steve never seemed to want to talk about Eddie OR HellFire. Why were they pretending not to know each other? It was weird.

Steve would pick them up from sessions, he and Eddie would share a short wave back and forth, and that was the end of it. It was still weird that Eddie’s hair seemed to get tangled in Steve’s shirt, even though Steve didn’t go to the meetings anymore. In fact, now that Dustin joined, Steve didn’t seem to wear the shirt at all anymore.

So another mystery was upon him.

But then a cheerleader died, and no one could find Eddie.

And all of a sudden his face was plastered on the news, his name becoming synonymous with ‘Satan’ and ‘murderer’ which Dustin thought was ridiculous. Eddie Munson was not a violent person, not by any means, in real life. As a dungeon master he could be pretty merciless, but. That was just a game.

And the newest mystery revolving around Steve and Eddie was put on the back burner.

They found Eddie a few hours later in Reefer Rick’s boathouse, a suggestion made by Steve, the stress too high to consider how he could even know that. But then there was a bottle pressed to his jugular and sorry Eddie, but he needs Steve alive for this. So he pleads until Eddie drops the bottle, Steve’s eyes reading more concern than fear, but Dustin would think about that later. He watches Eddie as Eddie watches Steve be comforted by Robin, wiping the stray tears away, looking back at Eddie with a look that Dustin thought Steve could only give to girls…

Unfortunately, as entertaining as it was, Steve’s love life was not the hot topic of the moment. So he moved on, and the events unfolded in succession of disaster, like they usually do when the upside down rears its ugly head. And all of a sudden Steve is telling them not to be cute, and Eddie says ‘Make him Pay,’ in a tone that anyone could hear, means something different.

—

Nancy delivered the final blow, and Vecna was down. But there was a pit in Steve’s stomach. Something was very, very wrong. So he ran. Nancy and Robin were hot on his heels, shouting for him to slow down but he couldn’t. The scene came into view and Steve couldn’t breathe. Dustin was sobbing over Eddie’s prone body, bats from hell surrounding them.

Steve could only run faster, he reached them, dropping to his knees.

“Eds,”

“Stevie,”

“Don’t do that Munson. We’re getting you out of here. I swear to god. If you die, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

And through his grief clouded brain, Dustin knew Steve meant what he said.

From that moment on it was a blur, Nancy and Robin helped Dustin limp towards the gate, only looking back to see Steve lifting Eddie from the ground in what looked like sheer will. They’re going to make it out. He can feel it. He’s got to figure out the mystery. And maybe that was a stupid thought, but he was only 15, and that was what gave him hope.

The gate that split in the Munson trailer was beginning to close, and it was a fight to get through, Dustin didn’t get to see the end though, because when his broken leg was met with the force of hitting the right side up, he passed out.

—

He woke to a steady beep and a pressure holding his leg in place.

He cracked open his eyes to see his mom sitting in the plastic hospital chair next to his bed, reading a book.

“Mom?”

“Dusty,” She gasped, pressing the Call button, and reaching to grab his hand.

“E- Eddie?”

“I- I’m sorry baby.” And for a second, Dustin’s heart dropped, “He’s still in surgery. That earthquake really did a number on him. The doctors think he’s going to pull through.” Dustin breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, and Steve was admitted for his wounds. He’s in the next room over. They’re going to put Eddie with him as soon as he’s in the clear, Steve’s request.” With the news that his friends were okay, and the soothing motion of his mom brushing her hand through his hair, he fell asleep. The next time he woke up it was by a doctor, getting him ready to be discharged with strict orders of rest.

He ended up moving from his room, to making a home in Steve’s room.

It was weird to see Steve in the hospital, unmoving, hair flat against his forehead. It almost brought tears to his eyes to think about his brother like that, the only thing keeping him together was that Steve was here, awake, and the heart monitor’s beeps were steady and reassuring.

—-

It had been a few days, Steve’s wounds were healing nicely, and he was allowed to go home.

Eddie had been cleared from the ICU and moved to a long stay ward.

He was still asleep, but the doctors said that was his body’s way of healing. That’s what they said about Max too. They were confident both of them would eventually wake up.

Dustin had expected to see Steve around the hospital after his discharge, checking Max, and keeping up with his own check ups. What he didn’t expect to see was him and Eddie’s uncle Wayne in what looked like a heartfelt embrace. He didn’t really mean to eavesdrop, but he also didn’t move away. “He’s gonna wake up, son. I know he’s strong. And I know you’ll be right there waitin’ for him.” Wayne's gruff voice floated through the quiet hospital. Dustin didn’t realize Steve knew Wayne like that but, he guesses it’s from Steve’s secret HellFire days.

He shook off the initial confusion and went to join the two men in Eddie’s room. They would sit and talk. Talk about Eddie, Steve’s interactions with weird customers, how Wayne was settling in to the new government provided house. Anything. Just to fill the room with sound, to let Eddie know they were there when he was ready to wake up.

Dustin knew it was going to be an emotional day when Eddie woke up for real.

He’d been opening his eyes, and saying one word responses for about a week now, and the doctors predicted he’d be starting to wake up for longer periods of time real soon.

“S-tv?”

“Eddie! You’re awake, do you feel okay, can I get you any-”

“Slow down, boy.” Wayne said, resting a hand on his shoulder, Dustin pausing as he does. “Any pain, Ed?”

“No,”

“Good. They got you on the good stuff.” Wayne chuckled.

“Steve?” Eddie mumbled, and Dustin was confused for a moment, but he thought that Eddie was probably concerned about the guy that carried him out of hell. Dustin watched as Wayne smiled, “Your boys gone to get some coffee and chips for the kid and I. He’ll be back real soon.” His boy? Interesting…

Dustin was close to figuring out the mystery, there was just one thing he was missing. He knew these things took time, but this was taking forever, when was he going to figure this out? And right as he finished that thought, Steve walked in. He handed Wayne his coffee and tossed Dustin his chips, floating around the room on autopilot. Wayne and Eddie both watched with familiar fondness, as though they had seen this before. Steve finally let his eyes drift over to Eddie, who was wide awake now, smiling in his direction. “Eddie.” He breathed, eyes wide.

“Hey, Stevie.”

“Oh, you bastard! I told you not to be cute! I told you,” Steve’s voice cracked,

“C’mere.”

Steve slumped over to Eddie, basically crawling into the bed with him, and cried against his chest. Dustin felt as though the solution to the mystery was about to be revealed, were they related? No way. Best friends? Secret Best friends? Perhaps…

“I told you,”

“I know you did, baby.”

Wait. Baby?

And y’know, he shouldn’t have been so surprised at what happened next.

“I hate you,”

“No you don’t.”

“You’re right,” Steve sighed, leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to Eddie’s lips, savoring the sweet reunion. That is until Dustin breathed in sharply, trying to be quiet so as not to disturb them, but instead choked on a piece of potato chip. He coughed and hacked, and Wayne clapped him on the back and handed him some water, and there was snot and tears running down his face. “Sorry,” He said hoarsely, still partially choking. “I didn't mean to ruin the moment I just-” Steve cut him off with a smile, “You finally put two and two together, huh? Guess I owe you five bucks, Eds.” Dustin watched them carefully. “What?” He asked, only slightly embarrassed at the implication that the two had bet on him.

“Me and Stevie bet that it’d take us kissing in front of you for you to figure out we’re together. He thought you’d figure it out before that.” Eddie said, smiling through his words.

“I thought you were smarter than that, Dust. You really let me down,” Steve teased.

Eddie sighed, “When you saw me in the shirt I thought I had lost for sure, but you never really said anything about it.”

“I thought that Steve might’ve been secretly a part of HellFire…” He trailed, looking down sheepishly.

Wayne barked out a laugh, “It’s okay, kid. I was bettin’ that you’d figure it out at their weddin.’”

And Dustin gasped at that. “Mr. Uncle Wayne, I'm hurt,” He said dramatically, a hand clutching at his chest. Wayne sighed, “Boy, you are just about as bad as Eddie.”

And both Steve and Wayne shared a good, long laugh when Eddie and Dustin let out simultaneous “Hey!”s. Dustin shook his head, but let a smile rest on his face. This was a better outcome than he could’ve hoped for.

And if he’d heard Steve and Eddie’s “I love you’s” whispered back and forth as they all settled in for sleep, well.

He’d just keep that to himself.

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